


Mama, Just Killed A Man

by Leoithne



Series: It's a Deacury World, all you have to do is fall in love. [1]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Deacury, Forgive Me, I Blame Myself And Myself Only, Love, M/M, Some Tears Shed, Why Did I Write This?, or so it seems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4177005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leoithne/pseuds/Leoithne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years have passed, but some memories are hard to forget, and dwelling in those bittersweet moments brings back all those never-soothed feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mama, Just Killed A Man

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote this thing. I'm serious. It just popped up in my head and I decided to write it down. I even feel somewhat guilty about this, but who cares?
> 
> On a more serious note: I'm not English, and English is not my first language. This thing is not betaed and all mistakes are mine and purely mine. If you spot one - or many - tell me, I'd be grateful. 
> 
> Furthermore, this is a work of fiction and fiction only. Nothing written here _probably_ ever happened. Also, I don't own any Queen rights, nor any Queen member - although I'd be happy to own Brian. Sadly, that's not possible.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this, and, if you do, leave kudos. Or, if you feel brave enough, a comment.
> 
> At last, but not at least: this is dedicated to Ste, the loveliest person one could have ever dreamt of meeting. You can play in a band with Freddie now, and I'm sure he likes you.

_March, 2005._

 

John was always referred to as the “quiet” one. His whole life had been characterised by an intrinsic desire of being left alone, appearing to the world as though he weren't a member of the most famous band in the world, but as though he were some kind of next-door guy.

His calmness didn't come from meditation, yoga or what else. His simplicity wasn't a matter of shyness. His whole being was such because...well, he hadn't either uttered that or thought about that “because” for ages now. Now that all the fuss had finished, now that he was back to being John and not the John everyone knew, he still could not utter that “because”.

Because it was complicated.

He could still see that shadow of sorrow, hurt, and betrayal in those deep dark eyes. Those eyes he was failing to forget, even if days, months, years had passed. Those eyes who had told him who he really was for the first time: a murderer.

 

_July, 1974._

 

“ _Mama, just killed a man..._ ”

The voice filled the small studio in London. It was July and it was hot. Brian had desperately tried to persuade Freddie not to rehearse that day, else they'd lose their lives.

Freddie hadn't listened. Obviously. Which had brought Brian to swear he wouldn't have come, and Roger to promise exactly the same. Which had brought to the logical conclusion that the quartet was now a duet, made of a flamboyantly handsome singer and a not-so-flamboyant-and-surely-not-handsome bassist.

“It's beautiful.” He said, leaning onto the wall.

“Do you mean it?”

“Of course I do.”

“I'll sing the rest, then.”

Long, lean fingers pressed white and black keys. They travelled smoothly from one end of the piano to the opposite.

“ _Didn't mean to make you cry..._ ” Freddie sang.

“ _If I'm not back again this time tomorrow.._.” Uttered John, barely a whisper.

Yet, Freddie heard him. He stopped playing.

“You remember it.”

John looked baffled, and felt a too familiar heat on his cheeks.

“Yes...I...” He cleared his throat “I might remember some of it.”

“Why?”

When Freddie asked a question there was no doubt he would not have accepted an “I don't know” as the answer. There were eyes fixed on him.

“You don't usually remember new songs this easily.” Freddie pointed out. “Unless we already rehearsed them a dozen of times, and this one is just at its first stages. It won’t even go into our upcoming album!”

Nothing could have been truer than that statement. It usually took him some time to remember the words in those songs, especially the most complex ones. Yet, this was particularly complex – and had not even been rehearsed nor completed yet – and he remembered it. Freddie knew there was something unusual going on, in the least.

“Because...” He began.

_Because I like you, because I've always liked you, but not as a friend, Freddie. Because every single time I look into your eyes, I see beauty, but not the common beauty – that exterior beauty people see in you – I see your beautiful soul. Because I learn your songs by heart because I find them a way to be with you, to belong with you. Because, no matter what, I’m struck by the way you sing, the way you move, the way you talk._

_October, 1970._

“See that band?” John’s friend pointed at four guys standing in a corner of the small pub.

“Yes?” John asked, heavily annoyed.

He didn’t want to be there. He had to study, he had to practise with his bass, and he had a million other things to do. He had no time to go and see a semi-unknown band playing whatever shitty music they played. He _wanted_ to be a part of a serious band, not just one made by four kids dressed as if they were going to a fancy party instead that on stage. Yet, he had accepted his friend’s invitation. _I promise you won’t be disappointed_ , he had said to persuade John.

“I’m still waiting to see how _impressive_ they are, Mick.”

“Pretty much, John. Pretty much.”

“With someone like _him_?” and he pointed his index at some guy with heavy eye-lined eyes and the most absurd tunic he had ever seen.

“Especially with someone like _him_.”

Albeit still incredulous, after the performance John had to admit he had never been that wrong in his life about someone.

“They rock. Don’t they, John?”

He had a million questions waltzing messily in his head. _Where do they come from? Who are they? Who is that guy with that voice? Who the hell are they? Do they want another member? Still, who the hell-on-earth are they?_

“Yes. They were great.” He admitted, maintaining an outward calm that didn’t match his inward turmoil.

“I bet they’ll become famous one day.”

“You’re dreaming, Mick. They were good, ok. But they are no Beatles, nor are they, dunno, the Zeppelins.”

“The Zeppelins aren’t still _that_ famous. Besides, both Beatles and Zeps had to start somewhere.”

John nodded wearily. Still, his heart was telling him something about that band. He didn’t know what. He didn’t even know why it was still beating that fast. There were reasons, of course; some of which he recognised, like the way that lanky guitarist had played; and some with which he was struggling. Like the way that singer’s singing had affected him. It was, of course, because he was good at it. It was because…

“Yeah, you’re right. But you know how the music industry is nowadays. They probably won’t go any farther than London, or less. What’s their name, though?”

“Queen.”

_January, 1971._

 

“‘M sorry, do you happen to know where the room for the audition is?”

“The room for what?” the girl he had asked seemed puzzled.

He took out a crinkled piece of paper from his pocket, and showed it to the girl.

“See? They’re looking for a bass player. Room 157.”

“Ooooooh. Room 157 is upstairs. The first door on the left.”

“Thank you.”

He rushed upstairs. He had met two of the members of the band just a few days before, when his friend had told him that they needed a bassist. He had introduced himself, said that he played the bass, and had been welcomed with that same sheet of paper he had just shown to the girl.

“If you want to give us a try.” The blonde guy had told him.

And now he was standing before the door numbered 157 on opaque glass. He had been in doubt for a couple of days about whether to go there or not. What was preventing him from showing up was the fact he wasn’t that sure anymore he still wanted to play in a band. Maybe, he had repeated to himself, it was time to grow up and act like an adult. Find a proper job. Meet a girl. Marry her. Have children. Still, he was standing before a door with his bass on his shoulders. Maybe there was another reason why he had been so unsure about coming there. A reason he wasn’t so eager to admit to himself. Because he…

“Are you here for the audition?”

As he turned to the voice, his last doubts crumbled, giving space to an eerie sense of relief.

“Uh…yes.”

“Oh, that’s nice, darling!” the man exclaimed, “What’s your name?”

“…er… John. John Deacon.”

“Nice to meet you, John. I’m Freddie. Bri and Rog are late, so, if you want to take a look at our equipment and make yourself at ease… Do your best, ok? I’m looking forward to hearing you!”

Those words went straight to his brain, and to his heart. He plugged his bass in, and fidgeted a bit with the chords, which gained him a smile from the heavy eye-lined and somehow flamboyant guy. He went on playing what he was able to play at his best, as though he were trying to impress that same man who was now looking very attentively at him. Some three minutes later, the other two members – the ones he had met a couple of days before – appeared at the door. He stopped, waiting for them to get into the room.

Freddie smiled to him, then turned to the others:

“I like him.” He simply stated.

John flushed, lowering his gaze and becoming incredibly aware of the presence of the strings on his instrument.

“Can we hear him too, Fred?” Brian huffed.

“There’d be no need, but do as you please.”

And he dramatically left the room.

One day later John Deacon was the fourth member of Queen.

_September, 1972._

“Why are we re-recording this again?” Roger snorted.

“Because _you_ keep going off-tempo!” Freddie shouted.

“I am sorry.” John muttered his apology.

“Not you, Deaky. You were perfect, just perfect. But Roger and Brian are going too fast on this track. It should be more…du-du-dum…not d-du-dum.”

Working with Freddie wasn’t easy. He had quickly learnt that rule when they had started playing together. If Brian and Roger themselves were incredibly painstaking when rehearsing and on venues, Freddie was the personification of the word _painstaking_. He paid so much attention to small detail, like how _this_ or _that_ sounded, that they spent whole afternoons just trying to get what Freddie wanted. It obviously led to some friction between the band’s members, usually ruled out in a matter of minutes.

Except this time.

It was the fourth time they were re-recording “Liar”. At first, they had had problems with the equipment, and they had had to wait for the crew to sort them out. Then Brian’s guitar had decided it was the right time to stop working properly. Then it came out faster than intended. John knew he had his faults. After all, he had been following Roger’s drumming when the song had been played, so he had been as off-tempo as Roger and Brian had been. Still, Freddie hardly ever blamed it on him.

“If you don’t do it properly this time, I’m leaving.” Freddie threatened.

His threats were never to be taken seriously, but they pretended them to be.

“Ok, ok. We’ll rehearse it one more time.” Brian allowed, silencing Roger’s surely not-so-polite reply, “But if it doesn’t satisfy you, I swear we’ll never record this song.”

Freddie’s faced turned white, then some colour between red and purple. He was livid. Still, he managed to grin fiercely.

“Ok, May. If that’s what you want…come on, Deaky! Let’s go and take a beer while they do it!”

“But…” John tried to reply.

“Oh, come on!” he concluded, vanishing into the corridor.

Saying _no_ to Freddie was the first thing he had learnt not to do when he had joined the band. _Never say no to Freddie_ was the unspoken, unwritten rule of Queen. He turned to the other members. Brian shrugged his shoulders, and Roger said:

“Go, John.”

“You sure?”

“He will never come back if you don’t go now.”

“But are you fine with this? I mean… I know I played this thing wrongly, as you two did…”

“Just shut up and go.” Brian cut short, “Or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

John put down his instrument and went out of the room. He picked one last piece of conversation before the drums and the guitar echoed through the small place.

“He likes him so much…”

 

_July, 1974._

 

Of course he didn’t answer what his mind was suggesting. That would have made the whole matter complicated. That would not have done any good to any of them. When had he first realized he was attracted to Freddie? He couldn’t remember. It just happened. As if it were normal, as if it were _meant_.

“Because I studied it.” He spat out.

Which wasn’t anywhere near to what he had thought.

Freddie gave him a puzzled look. _You could do better than lying to Freddie_ , he told himself.

“Really?”

“Well, yes.” He lied some more.

Freddie stood up from his seat and approached him, eyes fixed deep into his own.

“Really, really?”

John swallowed, trying to turn his head away. It was impossible. Freddie’s gaze stayed there, a predator preying on his prey, already foretasting the soft, savoury meat.

“Really.”

“Deaky, I can spot you telling me a lie from a hundred miles away, let alone from ten centimetres. I’m asking you that question again. _Why_?”

Freddie was now a hairbreadth away from him. He was so near John could see his chest rising. He was so near he could feel his breath on him. Freddie was so near that, if he leaned a bit, he could have _ki_ … _No, John, what the hell are you thinking?_ But before his mind could even think a whole sentence, somehow his mouth managed to say a totally different thing.

“Because I like you!” he cried out.

Those four simple words echoed through the studio, through the air, through his head.

No, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t right at all. He was dreaming. He was sure of that. He was dreaming. One of those dreams where everything seems real, but then you wake up and realise it was nothing but a dream. Of course it was a dream. He hadn’t just said it out loud. He hadn’t.

He had.

Freddie stared at him with an unfathomable look. Was he disgusted? Was he angry? Was he shocked? John didn’t know. All he knew was he shouldn’t have said that. Yet he had.

“I think I should leave, now.” He managed to say, “If you would like to look for another player, I won’t oppose your decision. Tell the others, would you?”

And he unplugged his bass from the amplifier. Freddie still hadn’t said anything, contenting himself with scrupulously looking at John, as though he were the subject of an experiment.

“Just tell the others. Say whatever you like. That the life of a rock star doesn’t fit me. That I decided to become a Buddhist monk. That… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He left the room, leaving a still motionless Freddie behind.

As he crossed the threshold which divided the studio from the road, he felt tears running down his face. He loved Queen. He loved playing with them. What he felt for Freddie shouldn’t have mattered, he should never have let it interfere with his duty toward the band. Crying was useless. He was done. Everything had come to an end.

He didn’t even hear a muffled voice from behind.

“John, wait!”

 

_31th March 1974, Rainbow Theatre._

“John, come on!”

“No, Freddie. I’m not going to wear _that_!”

“It’s just nail polish!”

“It’s exactly because _it is_ nail polish that I’m not going to wear it!”

“You already did it once. Do that again for me, John, would you?”

“Not a chance in heaven.”

 

_31th March 1974, Rainbow Theatre, a while later._

 

The lights turned on and the four members of Queen popped out of the darkness they had been clad in until now. Freddie’s onstage presence was electric as always. He excited, galvanized, and provoked the audience. John was sure Freddie was born to be on stage. He looked at him, thinking about how utterly perfect he was. Stage lights upon him, pearlescent white wings, and fairylike moves made him a god walking among humans.

Then he looked at his freshly painted nails. There had been no doubt Freddie would have eventually won the fight. They had agreed on _only the white one, Freddie_ , which had made Freddie huff a: _you’re so monotonous, John_. That was the reason why he knew his fascination for the singer was hopeless, unrequited. How could someone like Freddie be interested in someone so incredibly _plain_?

It wasn’t a matter of sexuality. There had never been questions about Freddie’s sexuality, and if there had ever been, they had all been answered when Freddie himself had told them he _didn’t give a fuck if they were men or women_. He simply didn’t care. He was _attracted_ to _people_ , no matter the gender. That had obviously become blatant when Freddie and Mary had broken up, and Freddie had been seen with different guys over a two months period.

With John it was a bit different. He labelled himself as _straight_. He had never thought about men, not in _that sense_ anyway. But that didn’t stop him from liking Freddie. And it wasn’t the reason why he had never confessed it.

The reason lay in himself.

As Freddie started singing _Keep Yourself Alive_ he turned to John, and gave him a small smile and a nod. John’s reciprocated and Freddie, as he was used to, came near him for the chorus. John didn't sing on any of their tracks, and the microphone standing before him had its main – and only – purpose the moment where he had to play the triangle on _Killer Queen_. Despite this, Freddie had a habit of going near him and make him “sing” into his own mic. That was fake, obviously. He only mouthed the words, never uttering one.

This time was no different.

_Keep yourself alive_

_Keep yourself alive_

_All you people, keep yourself alive!_

And Freddie’s cheek touched his. He played along with him; he could not avoid him, nor could he turn his head away. Freddie grinned when the chorus ended, and continued his spectacle.

The reason lay deep inside himself.

Freddie – but also Brian and Roger – were funny, outgoing, and smart. He was _dull_ compared to them. He was dull even compared to those guys he had seen Freddie hang out with. He could be no match with any of them.

His white nail polish shone under the stage lights as Freddie sang the first notes of _Liar_ and turned to him. Yes, of course he was a liar. There was no doubt in that. And there was no way out of it.

 

_July, 1974, a few days later._

_Ring ring._

_Ring ring._

_Ring ring._

John threw his head back. It was terribly aching since he was not used to drink that much. He was the Queen who was supposed to be reasonable, the one who never did something stupid. Still, he was falling to pieces.

_Ring ring._

_Ring ring._

_Ring ring._

 “Couldn’t you just _shut_ the fuck up?” he yelled at the phone which kept ringing.

_Ring ring._

It stopped.

“Finally.”

 

_End of July, 1974._

“John, would you _please_ open this door?”

It was Freddie’s voice. He couldn’t have possibly mistaken it for someone else’s. He said nothing. Maybe Freddie would go away, if he didn’t answer.

“I know you’re inside, your neighbour told me you haven’t gone out for the last three days. So, John, could you _please_ open the door?”

He put his hands on his ears. He didn’t want to hear Freddie’s voice. He didn’t want to hear what he had to tell him. It wasn’t important. He didn’t mind.

“Oh, John. Do I have to knock the door down? Do I?”

One more time, he didn’t answer.

“I’m going to knock it down, John. And you know how much it upsets me to scratch my nail polish!”

_Trust Freddie to be his usual self when it comes to his appearance_ , John smiled to himself, and eventually decided to open the door before his friend made something incredibly idiotic – like trying to kick the door down.

Despite his decision, he found his legs shaking as he took the few steps to the door. As he opened it, he realised he wasn’t ready to face the whole mess but it was already too late. Freddie, in a cat-like movement, had entered the small flat, without giving him any chance to close the door in time.

“Fred…” he said, as a kind of greeting, yet he didn’t dare to raise his eyes.

“John.”

“Have you already found a suitable replacement?” he asked casually, as if he were unimpressed.

“We don’t want a _replacement_ , John. Why would we ever want a replacement?”

John frowned. Was there something about “I like you” that Freddie hadn’t understood? Of course not. Then what? He couldn’t obviously play with them anymore. He had crossed a boundary that shouldn’t have been crossed.

“I thought it was clear.”

It was Freddie’s turn to look puzzled at best.

“Was it? I must have missed something.”

“Fred…” he said as if he were dealing with a child “I said what I said, and I can’t eat that back, nor can I erase it from the timeline.”

Freddie sat down on the sofa, gave a disgusted look at the bottle of whisky lying there, picked it up, and placed it on the table before him.

“John, you’re the one evidently missing a piece here.”

“I…am not.” He retorted, “I meant that. And there’s _evidently_ no way for me to go back in time and make my stupid self of one month ago shut his fuck up!”

“John.”

“Now, can you please just go?”

“John. You aren’t listening to me.”

“No, Fred, you’re the one not listening. I said that. I should never have. I can’t play anymore in a band where the person I like knows that, but he is “ _so sorry, I don’t mean to hurt you, but I don’t like you back_ ”!” He shouted, taking Freddie aback “And how could you play like that? How could Brian and Roger too? How? And don’t say “ _I don’t mind, because it’s ok for me_ ” because I don’t fucking believe it!”

When he finished speaking, his lungs were almost burning, and he felt his head going dizzy. Freddie stayed silent. John waited for him to say something, for him to agree, for him to slam the door and storm out of his apartment. Freddie did nothing of that. There were warm tears on the brink of John’s eyes, but he refused to let them flow on his cheeks. He fought them back. His uneven breathing slowed down to its normal rhythm.

“Are you calm now?” Freddie asked, “And are you willing to listen to me?”

John tentatively nodded, insecure whether it was the right thing to do. Part of him didn’t want to hear anything; part of him just wanted it. Badly. Desperately, even.

“John…first: I would never hurt you. Second, if I involuntarily hurt you, I am sorry. Third, you didn’t give me enough time to talk to you when you ran away. I told you to wait, but you didn’t hear me.”

“Why should I have waited? To hear you say you were sorry? Tell me, Freddie: how can we possibly go on now that you know what I’m feeling? How can you possibly have a normal relationship with someone when you know I’ll be there watching, and, probably, sulking? How can a band go on like this? With everyone looking at me as the _poor John_?”

“John, stop that. You aren’t hearing what I’m saying just as you didn’t want to listen to what I had to say some days ago. John…I like you.”

An eerie silence fell in the small room. Noises from the roads below could be heard, but neither John’s breathing nor Freddie’s heartbeat seemed to exist. John stared back at Freddie who was innocently looking at him with his dark eyes. Eventually John found the strength to speak:

“Freddie, you don’t _like_ me in the way I _like_ you.”

“Would it be better if I said I’m _attracted_ to you?”

John gaped, and he was sure his heart had just somersaulted in his chest.

“I…”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice!”

John let himself fall on the sofa beside Freddie, suddenly drained of all his strength.

“John, why did I tell Brian and Roger that you were perfect for our band? Why?”

“Because…I was good?”

“Of course you were. But remember I said “ _I like him_ ”?”

John’s head started spinning. He remembered, of course he did. How could he forget something related to Freddie?

“I see you do. And remember I never blamed something on you? Yes, again. I see you do. And why else would I have wanted to sing cheek-to-cheek with you for all these years? For no reason at all?”

“I thought you were trying not to make me feel excluded, since I was the last who joined the band.”

“Pfff, John, did you really believe that?”

John didn’t know what to answer anymore.

“Brian and Roger have known since the beginning. I wasn’t _possibly_ that subtle!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” it was all John could utter.

“Are you really that oblivious, John Richard Deacon?”

John shook his head, confused, baffled and, above all, rather shocked.

“You were supposed to be _straight_. That’s why I never said anything. I didn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable situation. I would have _never_ hurt you intentionally.”

“So…you like me.”

“Yes. It should be clear by now, darling.”

“You…like…me?” John asked, still incredulous.

Freddie suddenly closed the distance between him and John, making their lips meet. Freddie’s lips tasted completely Freddie-ish: they were fresh as spring mornings, burning as the hottest days of summers, demanding as Freddie had always been.

 

_March, 2005._

There was no more bittersweet memory than that. All that followed was dreamlike. Maybe it had all been just a dream. After all, nothing seemed real. Nothing.

He pressed two keys of the piano Freddie had left him in his will.

 

_October, 1974._

It had been Roger who found him hiding in a corner, far away from the rest of the band, crying. It shouldn’t have hurt that much. It shouldn’t and yet it was. It was hurting like dozens of knives piercing through his heart.

“John?” the stupor in Roger’s voice was evident, “John, what happened?”

“Rog…I…” but he stopped.

“You, what? John, I’ve never seen you in this state!”

“I saw _him_ with someone else!”

Roger’s eyes shut wide open, in disbelief.

“John, it can’t be. It can’t. He loves you, you know that!”

“I saw him. I’m telling you I saw him!”

“Maybe you were wrong, John.”

“I _fucking_ wasn’t!”

And he ran away.

 

_Middle of December, 1974._

“I was angry.” John told Brian “I was too angry to understand things clearly.”

“Quarrelling happens, John. You can’t help it.”

“He betrayed me! With that fil…”

“You did the same, John.”

“I was angry.”

“We’re getting nowhere. What’s the matter?”

“She’s pregnant.”

 

_Last days of October, 1974._

 

John ran to Freddie’s flat, anger burning him from the inside. It was raining – cold, icy raindrops – but he couldn’t feel it on his skin. On the contrary, he could feel his skin on fire as though he were covered in gasoline and someone had set him ablaze. His head was spinning, but he didn’t feel dizzy. His brain seemed on the verge of an explosion but overall he was calm.

Not that kind of calmness you have when everything goes as planned; not that kind of calmness you are in when you are about to go on stage; but that kind of calmness which was just the eye of the storm.

Freddie’s apartment was silent, and lights were off.

_He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t even care._

John desperately knocked on the door, his fists aching more and more as the knocking became harder and harder. No answer.

“I fucking hate you! I fucking hate you! Do you hear me, Fred? Can you hear me? I _fucking fucking fucking_ hate you!”

No answer.

 

_First days of November, 1974._

The red-haired girl walked toward him.

John and Queen had just finished their show, and he was tired. He almost forgot when the last time he had slept properly was. Had it been October yet? Or had it still been September? Surely he hadn’t slept soundly since he had seen Freddie with _that_ person. Just a few customers were still in the pub, and he was one of them.

Brian and Roger had gone home some minutes before, and Freddie…well, he didn’t mind about him. He could go out with whomever he wanted. John didn’t care. He had never cared. He could easily live without him. Not that the last month had not been tense between Freddie and him. They barely spoke to each other. To be honest, it was John who hadn’t spoken with Freddie for ages. Their exchanges of words were short and, usually, characterised by John’s never-ending grunts.

He had thought about leaving the band, he was still thinking about it. But Brian and Roger didn’t deserve it. In the slightest. Leaving would put them in the same situation they had been in four years before. He couldn’t do that with three albums on their backs. No, he couldn’t. He would simply forget Freddie and the whole matter.

“You are John, aren’t you?”

He raised his drunken gaze to see who was talking.

“Hi. I saw you playing. You’re fantastic!”

“Ta.”

“I’ve already seen you playing at least four times, you know.”

“Really?”

He was hardly following what she was saying, too much liquor running through his veins.

“Yes, really. My name is Veronica.”

“I’m John.”

“I know!” she laughed.

There was something in that laughter to which John wanted to cling himself. He was desperate, desperate for something he didn’t know. Desperate because he had been hurt, because he was angry – he had been angry for a month now, because he wanted to hurt himself a little more, and because he wanted to hurt someone else too. As a result, he kissed her.

 

_Middle of December, 1974._

 

“Fuck.”

“Exactly my thought, Brian.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not joking. We’re getting married in January.”

Brian stared at him with the most serious gaze he had ever seen in his eyes.

“You are kidding me.”

“Oh, god. You aren’t.”

“I love her! She’s pregnant with _my child_!”

“You _what_ her?”

“Love, Brian. I’m in love with her.”

“Don’t be that stupid, John, it doesn’t fit you. You love _we both know who_ , not _her_.”

“What do you know about that? What can you possibly know about _me_ and _her_?”

“About you and her? Nothing. About you and Fred? A lot. Maybe more than you two, stubborn and impossible prima donnas.”

John laughed bitterly.

“Freddie and I have nothing to do with each other anymore.”

“John, you’re still angry at him. If you two simply _talked_ …actually, if _you_ tried and talk with him…”

“He cheated on me.”

“And you haven’t talked with him ever since. Maybe if you tried…he, at least, did try. He’s been trying for the last month. But you shut your door.”

“So, now it’s _my fault_ , I see.”

“I didn’t say that. I’m just saying this entire thing is _stupid_. Avoiding him is _stupid_. Thinking everything would be alright without even trying is _stupid_. Acting like a child is _stupid_. Getting married is the fucking _stupidest_ thing one – you – could do to overcome what happened.”

“It isn’t _stupid_! I _love_ her!”

He shouted and left the room.

 

_18 th January 1975._

He didn’t know why he was standing in the aisle. He didn’t know why he was dressed like that. He didn’t know why he was still desperately trying to believe in that. He was doing the right thing, of course. He was about to marry a lovely woman and was about to become a father. Quite an achievement for a 24 years old boy playing in a band. He was doing what he desired to, nothing less.

They were all there, sitting on the church’s benches: parents, relative, and friends.

Brian and Roger were sitting two rows behind him. He had thought Freddie would not have come, yet there he was. If he turned his head to his right side he could spot him, half-hidden among the others. It was the confirmation he didn’t care about John, the confirmation he had never loved him and had never been hurt by him. If it hurt, he would never have come. Or so John thought.

“I do.” Veronica said.

“I do.” John said.

“Congratulations!” everyone cheered.

Freddie was standing in a corner, blatantly steering clear of John. John approached him. Every step he took seemed heavier and heavier.

“Congratulations, John.” He said “Be happy.”

And he left as a shadow of sadness John couldn’t avoid noticing veiled his eyes. They seemed to accuse him, to expose John’s true self – the truth about everything – to the whole world, but especially to himself. John felt empty.

 

_April 1975._

_Love of my life, you’ve hurt me._

_You’ve broken my heart_

_And now you leave me_

_Love of my life, can’t you see?_

 

Freddie sang in the microphone as the recording for their upcoming album went on.

_Bring it back, bring it back_

_Don't take it away from me_

_Because you don't know_

_What it means to me._

 

He had told the band he had written it for Mary, for the happy times they had spent together. John knew better. Freddie was singing it looking directly into his eyes, never turning his gaze away.

_Love of my life, don't leave me_

_You've taken my love_

_And now desert me_

_Love of my life, can't you see?_

 

As the “ _can’t you see?_ ” was sung, Freddie sadly smiled at him. John turned his head away to Roger who was sitting beside him. The drummer simply shrugged his shoulders as to say “ _you made this happen, you made this disaster_ ”.

He never talked much to Freddie after the wedding. They were on “friendly” terms for the sake of the band, and, probably, for their own mind’s sake. They handed music sheets to each other, said two/three words about this or that song, but they carefully avoided staying in the same room alone together. It was as if they were ghosts.

 

_May 1975._

_Ooh you're the best friend that I ever had_

_I've been with you such a long time_

_You're my sunshine and I want you to know_

_That my feelings are true_

_I really love you_

_Oh you're my best friend_

 

Freddie sang, following the notes John had given him. He had read the text and said nothing, but was singing it away as he always did.

“It’s about Veronica.” He was explaining Brian.

“ _I’ve been with you such a long time_ …” Brian read the paper, “Yes, of course it’s about _her_.”

_March 2005._

_Liar!_

_Oh, nobody believes me._

_Liar!_

 

Those words still echoed inside John’s ears. He had heard them being sung so many times in his life. Although the song was soon dropped from their live track list, whenever John heard it, it ached. There was no doubt he had been lying to himself. There was no doubt he had gone on lying to himself when he stubbornly stayed with Veronica, despite…well, despite everything told him he should have stopped lying to himself.

He had seen Freddie with countless lovers, and it still hurt. He had learnt to let it go, but it didn’t really work. He had started talking with him again, and it still didn’t sound right.

He pressed another key. Black.

 

_12 th July 1986._

The band had understood they were at the apex of their career when the two dates at Wembley Stadium went sold out in less than 24 hours. Seventy-two thousand people were waiting for them to step on stage. It was massive, it was walking straight into the Olympus of rock’n’roll. It was becoming _legends_.

 

_Somewhere in 1973._

“We’ll be legends one day.” Freddie told John as he composed a new song,“We will be legends, John. Roger, Brian, me, and you.”

“I doubt I’ll be a legend, Fred.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid, darling. You deserve it more than we do. More than I do.”

“Now you’re the one being senseless. Nobody deserves it more than _you_ do.”

“Because I can sing? There’s nothing legendary in it.”

“Because you can sing better than anyone else! That’s why!” he almost shouted.

Freddie frowned, and seemed puzzled. John blushed slightly. Indeed it had occurred to anyone to compliment their singer on his voice or on his piano skills. Still, they both knew it wasn’t normal for John, and surely not with that vehemence.

“Oh.” Freddie uttered, perplexed, “Thank you.”

It took them a few seconds to start talking again without John feeling terribly embarrassed.

“Anyway you should stop talking nonsense. You’re as valuable as we are, darling. I’m serious. And I’m going nowhere without you, understood? There’d be no Queen without you, and there’s no way I’m climbing my way to success without you, Deaky.”

John blushed at the statement.

“Do you want to hear this thing?” Freddie eventually asked, and John nodded, “Let’s see how it goes.”

_It’s so easy but I can’t do it_

_So risky – but I gotta chance it_

_It’s so funny, there’s nothing to laugh about…_

 

_12 th July 1986._

 

John was standing outside Freddie’s changing room. It had been Brian who had asked him to go there and tell the singer the sound engineers were ready to start.

“Give me two seconds, John.” Freddie had told him.

Five minutes had already passed.

“Fred, it’s getting late!”

“I’m ready!” and he came out the room, “How many are there outside?”

“They say around seventy thousand. Could be more.”

“I told you we would become legends, John.”

He smiled shyly. It was weird at its best that Freddie remembered the same conversation the same moment he did. They had been so young back then, so trouble-free, so incredibly _happy_. Weren’t they now? He looked at Freddie.

“We were so happy those years, weren’t we, John?”

“Aren’t we now?”

“You know what I mean.”

Brian reached them, cutting the conversation short. Nevertheless, it didn’t stop John from feeling an enormous amount of guilt gathering inside his stomach.

“Our fourteenth song will be _Love of My Life_.” Freddie pointed out while reading the list, and he softly sang “ _When I grow older I will be there at your side to remind you how I still love you…_ ”

John found himself murmuring, almost unheard:

“ _Oh, hurry back, hurry back, don’t take it away from me because you don’t know what it means to me…”_

But Freddie somehow heard him, and sang:

“ _Because_ you _don’t know what_ you _mean to me…_ ”

John was about to say something when the intro of _One Vision_ started.

 

_23 rd November 1991_

**_Following the enormous conjecture in the press over the last two weeks, I wish to confirm that I have been tested HIV positive and have AIDS. I felt it correct to keep this information private to date to protect the privacy of those around me. However, the time has come now for my friends and fans around the world to know the truth and I hope that everyone will join with my doctors and all those worldwide in the fight against this terrible disease. My privacy has always been very special to me and I am famous for my lack of interviews. Please understand this policy will continue._ **

 

It was written in capital letters wherever John turned his head. Even if the last five years had been a nightmare of hopeless days and sudden rays of light, it had been easier because the press was unaware. They – friends, relatives, and even casual acquaintances – had respected Freddie’s wish, and had never told anyone about what he was undergoing. They were the mute keepers of his pain, of his trauma, of his dying body and still lively eyes.

The phone rang as he read the umpteenth newspaper with “Breaking News!” on it.

Veronica answered the calls and diverted the journalists.

“It’s Roger, John.” She simply stated.

John stood up and took the phone. Roger’s words were pretty simple for a matter of that gravity:

“He knows.”

It took John two or three seconds to answer that.

“The bloody whole world knows now, Rog.”

“You know what I mean.” The drummer replied, “He wants to speak to you.”

“I…me?”

“You. And you only.”

Roger hung up.

John’s heart failed to tell him if he was still alive. He stayed motionless and fixed the wall before him.

“I’m going.” He said some minutes later, without specifying where. It didn’t matter.

Something inside him didn’t want to go. That same something didn’t want him to witness his Freddie fading away into darkness, and it didn’t want Freddie to leave him alone. Again.

 

_Beginning of October, 1974._

He was going to Freddie’s. He wanted to take him out to see a concert of a band which was becoming quite famous in those days. He was looking forward to that evening. Two months in their relationship and everything was perfect. Brian and Roger hadn’t been surprised when they had walked hand in hand into the studio, and he was slowly accepting that his sexuality was a bit broader than the mere _straight_. Or, better, he was finally enjoying it.

When he reached his lover’s flat, though, nothing was as he had expected.

Freddie was outside, leaning onto the wall, and a man – a man who clearly wasn’t John – was whispering in Freddie’s ear. Freddie was laughing. Yes, _laughing_.

He ran away.

 

_23 rd November 1991._

John entered the dark room where Freddie had been lying for the last two weeks. He hadn’t enough strength to keep himself upright, let alone walk or do anything else. He seemed even thinner, paler, weaker than when John had last visited him two days before.

“John…” his voice palely resembled Freddie’s, “…you’re here. Come nearer.”

“You shouldn’t tire yourself.”

“John…I’m dying.”

“You aren’t.” John said, more to persuade himself than Freddie.

“As always…you’re a bad liar, John.”

Silence fell. Freddie coughed.

“It’s ok. I think.” He continued, trying to smile “I lived my life at its fullest. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

“Don’t…”

“Please, let me speak.”

He stopped to cough one more time.

“There’s only one thing I regret, John, and that’s you. I should have…fought more. For us, I mean. I tried, but failed. And I gave up.”

“We both failed somewhere.”

“That’s not true. I failed you…you, well, you did what you were expected to. But that’s not the point. I didn’t call you here for this.”

“Why, then?”

“John, my darling, during the last two years of my illness I saw you whiter, I saw the guilt in your eyes, I saw you asking yourself countless of times “ _if I hadn’t married Veronica, he wouldn’t be dying now, would he?_ ”, I saw your endless trying to make amend for a fault you don’t have.”

“I…Freddie, I don’t…”

“Stop pretending. I’m dying and you’re still pretending…”

“Freddie…”

“Don’t. Don’t feel guilty, John. Don’t you ever feel guilty about this. It isn’t your fault, it _isn’t_.”

“But…” tears were running on John’s face.

“No buts, John.”

“But Freddie, if I stayed with you…if I tried to understand what happened, you…”

“John?”

“Yes, Freddie?”

“Do you still love me?”

John looked into Freddie’s dark eyes.

“I do.”

“I do too. I’ve never stopped.”

“Neither have I.”

“So, John, if you love me, promise me you’ll never feel guilty. You didn’t kill me. Nobody did. But, above all, not _you_. You kept me alive.”

“Fred, I can’t…”

“Do you love me?”

John took Freddie’s pale, thin hand and cried.

 

_24 th November 1991._

 

“He’s gone.”

It had been Brian, followed by Jim, who told him.

He did nothing, he said nothing. He took one of their CDs and put it on.

_Bring it back, bring it back_

_Don't take it away from me_

_Because you don't know_

_What it means to me._

 

_March 2005._

He started playing the piano. He wasn’t good at playing it, yet he had forced himself to learn one song. He couldn’t even sing, yet he sang that same song:

_Mama, just killed a man_

_Put a gun against his head_

_Pulled my trigger now he’s dead…_

 

And John cried, crystalline drops falling upon his hands, on the keys beneath.

He cried because he wanted the pain to cease, because time never healed his wounds, because…

 

_August 1974._

“John?” Freddie asked as he threaded his fingers into John’s hair under a tree.

“Yes, Freddie?”

“Will we grow old together?”

“Why are you asking that?”

“I don’t want to grow old without you.”

“You won’t. I promise I will always be there.”

 

_March 2005._

“I’m still here. And where are you?”

 

_Mama, just killed a man_

_Put a gun against his head_

_Pulled my trigger now he’s dead…_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. If you wish - or feel brave enough, leave a comment. It'd make me happy.
> 
> I still feel guilty about this, so: Freddie and John, please forgive me :)


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